Restraint
by Lerayl
Summary: Lion has some concerns about how Beatrice and Battler work out their marital disagreements.


Notes: Setting is an embarrassingly elaborate post-series headcanon shared with musouka that basically revolves around Beatrice, Battler, Will, and Lion working together in searching the sea of fragments for Lion's good ending. Whackiness ensues.

* * *

><p>Lion had his doubts whether either husband or wife even remembered what had started the fight.<p>

It had sparked as Beatrice made some innocuous, teasing comment, when the four of them had sat down together to eat, about her husband's responsibility for a mishap in some miscellaneous fragment. Battler, of course, had responded with impassioned protest. Lion's own attention had admittedly strayed a bit too far towards observing Will's strange, almost hypnotically lethargic eating habits to have grasped the particulars, but the verbal squabble that ensued was akin to watching a snowball gain momentum and volume when pitched from a large hill.

A pie had somehow wound up in Battler's face, to Beatrice's uproarious laughter: her body had shaken so with the force of it that she nearly kicked her own chair over. Battler managed to smack his lips twice against the whipped cream before the teapot had launched in retaliation—and before Lion had quite processed what was happening, what started as a food fight had quickly escalated into airborne furniture and then blood-red daggers and gleaming blue polearms being hurled from either ends of the room.

By the time Lion thought to check, Will had already silently excused himself and retreated peacefully into the pile of illustrated zoology magazines in the next room.

When Lion managed to join him, dodging flying silverware along the way, half the windows in immediate eyesight had already been shattered. As the sound of Battler's voice from the scene he had left behind shifted subtly from bravado to something more like raw, high-pitched panic, Lion glanced briefly over his shoulder, picking the glass out of his hair, before heaving a sigh and closing the door.

Will's eyes followed him as he moved across the room. He waited for Lion to sit down before asking, "What is it?"

Lion didn't answer immediately, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"It doesn't bother you at all?" he finally asked. "Is this just another one of those mad situations I should simply accept...?"

"Hn." Will leaned back, his eyes becoming lidded with thought. "Every couple has their own way of communicating."

Lion sighed again. _And what exactly is it _you _would_ _claim to know about couples and how they work?_

Will studied his face for a long moment. "You've seen the records of their previous games."

"Yes, that's true, but..." Lion searched for the correct words. "Perhaps it was naive to think they might have worked past this sort of thing once they understood each other, became married—"

Behind them—as though on cue—an explosion burst through the remainder of the windows, followed by the distinctly wet sound of splatter and Beatrice's triumphant laughter. Lion flinched. Flatly, once the ringing in his ears had stopped, he turned back to Will and asked: "I suppose casually tearing Battler to shreds is just another form of communicating as well...?"

"Well," Will said, with a shrug. "They are witches, after all."

* * *

><p>Three apocalyptic fights later, the toes of Lion's boots crept their way into Beatrice and Battler's darkened room, one tentative hand against the door frame. Beatrice stood before the dresser, studying her own reflection intently. Battler was currently absent, on account of being reduced to a pile of guts in the tea room from the row that had just taken place.<p>

This was far from the first time Lion had to decide how to respond to either a threat or outbreak of violence, even amongst family. Kinzo had often demonstrated his propensity for elaborate intimidation tactics against financial opponents when the stakes were high. Even amongst the Ushiromiyas themselves, there were enough tensions to go around, even on the best of days, that learning to gingerly and respectfully navigate such minefields was a matter of survival for the family's successor.

Therefore, Lion was well aware that it was good manners to generally leave well enough alone and allow others to work through their business for themselves—to divorce private strife from public courtesy. So for what must have been the third or fourth time on the way here, he paused, wondering if this was an appropriate or even necessary situation for his intervention—and why it was that he found himself feeling, when it came down to it, that he couldn't really help himself.

Perhaps because in some ways, he couldn't fully divorce himself from this. Perhaps because he still felt he had a certain responsibility for the happiness surrounding his other self—an existence closer to himself, in some ways, than even that of a sibling.

Even so, Lion was still going back and forth over the proper course of action, reservation dueling concern, when Beatrice turned around and spotted him. And the opportunity to turn back and let mindful restraint win the day passed into nothing.

"Ah, Lion!" she called. A delighted sparkle lit her eyes. "Is there something you require?"

Lion smiled in greeting, letting his hand fall from the door.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "You seemed to be having quite the quarrel with Battler."

"Hoh, _that _man?" Beatrice's smile twisted into a sly, knowing grin - the type shared between two insiders of a rather vindictive joke. "Hopefully he'll think twice now before believing he can best me with such halfhearted red truth."

"And Battler?" Lion asked. He inched, subtly, further into the half-lit room. "He's all right, too?"

Beatrice chuckled. "Surely you must have passed what's left of him on the way here!"

"Yes," Lion said. "I suppose I did."

At the slightly flattened tone of his response, Beatrice paused. She raised her pipe—twirling until this point between her fingers in the midst of her laughter—and gave a single puff before setting it down with an audible click against the surface of the dresser. The grin on her face melted into something more like unease.

"What is troubling you, Lion?"

In spite of everything, it wasn't often that Lion had the chance to speak with Beatrice in private like this. To look at Beatrice wasn't quite like looking into a mirror—her face reflected his mother's rather than Lion's own, and the other physical differences, ranging from both the obvious and the subtle, were too numerous to count. She also, of course, carried pride and a dignity befitting the one who had chosen to exist as a thousand-year-old witch—a certain, haughty curve to her mouth and a gravity to the way she moved and the way she spoke. But there was also a certain childishness, Lion thought—the vulnerability of a person whose heart quietly, privately, still lay enclosed with a lonely child who had lived and died speaking to shadows.

"This may not be my place to say," Lion began, then nearly stopped—perhaps he was, after all, still a human out of his depth amongst the likes of witches and witch-hunters and all of their incomprehensible rules and customs and histories. But Beatrice's eyes were already trained upon him in curiosity. He allowed himself the indulgence of one more breath of hesitation before plunging on. "But isn't going as far as killing him over and over... somewhat excessive?"

"E... excessive?" Beatrice repeated, dragging out the sound of the word—as though she had never so much as heard of it before. "That's..."

Lion spoke quickly. "I don't mean to impose upon your relationship. I apologize if I gave that impression."

Beatrice frowned, then shook her head.

"You are hardly imposing, Lion. If something is on your mind," she said, voice softening, "I would like you to feel free to speak it."

"It's only that," Lion said, slowly, "do you think Battler _enjoys_ being turned into a pile of meat?"

Just enough of a pause followed for the sheer absurdity of the posed question to sink in to Lion—he did his best to quickly and mentally shrug it off—and simultaneously, from the way the witch's shoulders drooped pathetically, as though a pair of heavy weights were suddenly pulling on the ends of her hair. the implied accusation to sink in to Beatrice.

"I always revive him," she muttered. "He doesn't complain."

"I suppose so," Lion allowed, "but if you consider Battler's pride, that's still rather..."

"No, no," Beato said hastily, drawing her shoulders back up. She snapped her fingers once, as though fitting a piece of puzzle into its place. "I do understand your concern. You worry for him as your cousin - and it is a legitimate fear from the standpoint of a human. He does strike one as a particularly incompetent man, does he not?" She chuckled under her breath, but as she spoke on, something in her eyes began to glow with a subtly different emotion. "Your impulse to look after him is an admirable one."

Lion opened his mouth, then closed it. Something pushed forward from within his chest in protest at Beatrice's words—some critical misunderstanding that they reflected.

"The realm of witches can be a jarring one to enter so suddenly, as you did," Beatrice continued, "Particularly as you are not truly a resident of this world. But do remember, though it may be difficult to comprehend, Battler and I do both carry the title of Endless. Lasting harm is not..." She clicked her tongue briefly, before concluding: "It is something we are aware that we have both surpassed."

_Surpassed... lasting harm?_

It hit Lion then, from the sheer, staggering falsity of that proclamation—Clair's hands had trembled slightly, supporting her book, as she spoke of Shannon's tears and the callous man who had refused to take responsibility for his own sin—that it wasn't the fact of his cousin's various and temporarily grisly ends that served as the real cause for his concern at all.

It was more the way Beatrice's own shoulders heaved afterward—the way she turned a little too quickly from her husband's remains, the slight hitch in her voice as she proclaimed her victory with a decidedly overbearing satisfaction.

"Indeed. Battler is a more capable man than he would have one believe at first... even if the span of 'at first' does extend over a thousand years." A certain sly edge entered Beatrice's voice. "Naturally, he's rather slow on the uptake compared to your Willard, however..."

"Are you still angry with him?"

Beatrice stopped. Lion's gaze was even with hers.

"Of course not." As she spoke, her voice softened further – until it was nearly a match to Lion's memories of Clair. "Such a thing is impossible now."

She trailed off into silence, thoughts focused on something far beyond Lion's vision. She shook her head, curls of golden hair swaying with the motion.

"At any rate," Beatrice said, "It would be erroneous for you to think we are unevenly matched. Of course, I respect that death is a terrifying concept for those who exist as humans, but for one who has—one who exists as a witch... well, Battler is more than capable of returning in full everything he receives at my hands, I assure you."

"You may say that, but..." Lion cast about briefly for how to frame the observation. "I don't actually see him having to revive you, Beatrice."

Beatrice stopped again.

Then, as though a switch were flicking on, she said: "Ah..."

Lion spread his hands slightly, palms outwards, towards his counterpart. "I think that's all I have to say. Thank you for hearing me out." He smiled. "And for helping me to understand."

Beatrice gave a slow, small, distracted nod.

Because, Lion realized, Battler could accept the eternity of his wife's presence here, at his side—but the wife, after everything, still found herself struggling on some level to believe. And that was something only Battler himself could answer to.

But as he moved to exit, a rather high-pitched whine of a protest and a feminine hand seizing his sleeve stopped him mid-turn.

"But, but, Lion...! Even if what you say is true, it's not _always_ my fault, is it? You know how Battler is! He can be the most infuriating man amongst the entire sea of infuriating men...! Sometimes he _deserves_ to lose a few of his limbs—I can't help it if he needs to be taught a lesson from time to time!"

Beatrice tossed her head briefly, almost haughty, before wilting fairly rapidly again under Lion's stare. Her lower lip jutted out, somewhere between sheepish and mulish.

"If I can't kill him, what am I supposed to _do?_"

Lion paused. A thoughtful expression came over his face.

"Well."

* * *

><p>"Battler."<p>

Her voice preceded her form; Battler cracked his newly-restored neck, wiggled his newly-restored toes, and lifted his head in time to see the last of the golden butterflies melting away into the familiar shape of the black dress and golden hair.

"Welcome back," he greeted. "Finally managed to cool off, huh?"

"Something like that," Beatrice said. Her cheeks were slightly puffed, posture oddly hunched. It reminded Battler of nothing so much as an indignant squirrel. "Well... perhaps."

"Hey, what's this?" Battler laughed, leaning over to leer at his wife. "Going all meek all of a sudden, see the error of your ways? Well, if you're offering an apology, I'll accept on certain conditions, that is, _tonight—_" His eyes made a significant flick downwards.

Beatrice's lips pursed. She didn't meet his gaze.

"Beato?" He bent forward enough for the tip of his nose to press lightly against hers. "What, is something actually bothering you?"

"It's only that..." His wife's throat visibly worked around the half-formed words. Battler frowned, straightening. "You are properly restored now... are you not?"

"Properly... what?" Battler blinked once, then glanced down at his own body-first at his torso, then craning his neck over his shoulder to study his backside. "Nothing seems missing," he reported, cranking one arm in a clockwise motion for emphasis. "Unless you've got some kind of crazy surprise up your sleeve later..."

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"Wouldn't exactly be anything new." Battler grinned—then faltered slightly when Beatrice still failed to respond properly to his bait. He reached out to cup a hand around the curve of her cheek.

"Seriously, Beato. What's this all about?"

She studied the floorspace between them so intently that Battler nearly startled when she practically blurted it out: "Do you... not like it when I kill you?"

For a second, Battler thought he misheard. "What?"

"When we fight," Beatrice mumbled, pulling back, and the tips of her index fingers began to press self-consciously against each other. "Sometimes I... perhaps it would not be unfair to say I can get carried away..."

"Oh," Battler said. _What brought this on?_ "Uh, maybe."

She was looking at him with a pathetic, downtrodden expression he couldn't remember seeing at such an acute—and heart-stopping—level since their third game on Rokkenjima. "Then..."

"Well, uh... I can't say it's the most pleasant thing in the world, but it's, uh, probably not the worst either, you know?" He shrugged. "I mean... I don't think that much of it, to be honest."

Beatrice's head lowered, her bangs obscuring her eyes. Battler's frown deepened—he was on the verge of adding something more, tentative, when she finally responded.

"...but, it's not fair."

"Huh?" Battler's head tilted. "What the heck is that supposed to mean?"

"It's only that..." Beatrice began. "You... don't kill me."

Battler blinked again. His wife's head drooped just a little further, almost imperceptible.

_I don't... kill you?_

And he remembered.

The steady dripping sound of her blood falling from the wounds in her chest as she hung before him, body impaled by careless blue truth. It was a sound different from rain—heavier and sinking into the ground at his feet like a poison, muffling her voice as she had called out to him. He had been sure of himself until that moment, but he found himself nearly retreating, his weight pressed back against his heels.

He remembered the way her braided hair had fallen loose, uneven clumps of gold threaded in knots about her shoulders. The way the hands she had used, even suspended as she was, to reach towards him were threaded with blood. The tattered remnants of her dress hanging like rags from her body. The way her tears had mixed so with her blood that one was impossible to distinguish from another—both shining an irrevocable red.

And then the feel of faded warmth crumbling into dust in his hands when the last of the life had left her eyes, a fragile weight withdrawing from atop his chest, in the wide space of an empty chapel.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft.

"Killing you once was enough."

Her head lifted, eyes over-bright. "But..."

"Look, I didn't suffer through a thousand years of torture, either," Battler muttered—his eyes moved away from hers, towards the floor, and he ran a hand through his hair in a single stilted motion.

"...even so..."

"Beato?" He stared at her.

She closed her eyes.

The truth was that she could still feel her heart seize briefly in her chest, sometimes, when he turned away and she was faced with the image of his back—the possibility of it fading. Even after she had revived and reunited with him, this time as a fellow witch. Even after he had sealed himself into the torment of a logic error for the sake of preserving her secrets. Even after he had plunged after her into the dark water, hand stubbornly reaching for hers even as the air was slowly crushed out of both of their lungs.

It was more to her than she still truly believed he could ever understand.

But the truth remained: that it was still not an easy thing to shrug off an eternity of wondering, an eternity of feeling the question subtly evolve over the passage of time and gradually rise in pitch in reflection of her own mounting desperation.

_When will you come for me? _

_Will you come for me? _

_Will you come?_

And locked within the questions, synonymous with them, was the accompanying shadow of a human identity—a small, sickly hand pressed against the dark cloth of a servant's uniform, knuckles white against the smooth handle of a worn broom.

_You came._

She felt her nails bite into the skin of her palms.

_Will you stay?_

Witches were existences born of torture. They were beings who had abandoned themselves and their humanity to the sea of darkness and abstract possibility. It was impossible, the child wept, that he could have understood that. The child's faceless shadow, buried deep within her heart, still unable to master this form of belief, lingered in doubt of the reality of this form of magic.

Therefore—and a sick, uncertain sort of heat, not the same as anger, but cutting just as deep—

_Do you regret it?_

She jerked slightly as Battler's voice broke through her thoughts.

"Even so, nothing. When you think about it like that," he remarked, and she noticed suddenly that he had taken her hands in his, thumbs running tiny circles against her knuckles, "Some deaths here and there don't really amount to anything at all, do they?" He shot her a familiar, easy grin. "You'd have to take it way beyond that for me to even begin to get worried."

_Ah._

The heat rose into her throat. Her vision blurred.

A look of bewildered concern came over Battler's face. "Hey, that's not an invitation to start brainstorming, for the record! I'm not saying you're losing your touch or anything!" He shook his head, moving to put his arm around her shoulders. "How about this? We'll call it even."

She exhaled slowly, feeling the trembling sensation begin to slowly escape her body. "Yes," she managed, lips pursed against each other. When she spoke again, her voice was far steadier. "Indeed, I _suppose_ a few deaths could be considered enough to draw even for a thousand years."

"A few?" Battler asked, incredulously. "A few _dozen_, you mean—"

Beatrice waved him off, letting out a chuckle that only slightly betrayed its underlying tremor. "Mere trifles that would only concern the pettiest of men! The point is, with this last death, we may consider Battler Ushiromiya's obligations repaid. You should be grateful—you are truly fortunate to achieve my clemency with only this much."

Battler snorted, but wasn't quite able to suppress his smile.

"Make no mistake, though, Battler Ushiromiya: that doesn't mean I'm going easy on you from now on!" She threw her head back and let loose a full-throated, delighted cackle fresh with renewed energy. "Worry not! Even if I refrain from fatalities from today on, I've picked up a few lessons from my other self about certain disciplinary tricks from the human world to keep uncouth men like yourself in line...!"

_Lessons from... your other self?_

Something in the intonation of his wife's voice, with those words, prompted the slow but sure formation of a bead of cold sweat just beneath Battler's left temple.

* * *

><p>When Will saw Battler next, he was half-walking, half-hopping into the lounge, both hands clenched firmly around his rear end. Their eyes met. Will only managed the slightest lift of an eyebrow from over the top of his magazine before Battler's feet jolted off the ground, yelping, propelled by an unseen but visibly precise shot of pain.<p>

It looked like, Will thought, gaze returning to this volume's particularly captivating illustration of a Persian, that the combination of a successor's ideas of discipline and a witch's mastery of magic was a dangerous thing, indeed.

"Damn it, I can't go two _seconds_ without—" Battler began, then jumped again. "_Ow!_"

Will turned the page.

"Hey, uh—Will," Battler said, face still screwed up in a wince—and with only the slightest beat of hesitation before calling out the other man's name. "This is your... this is Lion's thing, right? You've known him longer than I have—how do you deal with this?" His voice faltered into a plea. "How do you make them _stop?_"

At that, a harrowed cast came over the former inquisitor's expression that Battler was fairly sure he had never witnessed before. A shade of foreboding seemed to project itself over the room. Will's lips moved slightly, so subtly that Battler wasn't sure if he had seen right at first.

"Uh, sorry? What did you say?"

"I said," Will repeated, more clearly, "You _don't_."

Past them, in the tea room, two distinct voices were heard cackling.


End file.
